


with hands that are dying and resurrected

by sunshiner



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9272027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner
Summary: "How was he?""The Regent?" At Damen’s nod, Paschal continued, "It wouldn't do to speak ill of dead people."Before he could think better of it, Damen asked, "And the King?"There it was again, Paschal’s twitch of the mouth."It's also unfair to ask to speak ill of the people who are currently in charge.""Would you, if you could?""Your Highness,” said Paschal, patiently, “the King is not your enemy. Nor you are his, if only he would accept it."Or, a canon divergence AU in which the Regent did what we were all hoping for: kick the bucket.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jinxed_Ink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxed_Ink/gifts).



> This is a (very belated) secret santa for Grace. Happy New Year!
> 
> Just a PSA: the fic contains most of the same warnings as canon.

_Here when I say “I never want to be without you,”_

_somewhere else I am saying_

_“I never want to be without you again.” And when I touch you_

_in each of the places we meet_

_in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying_

_and resurrected._

_When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,_

_in each place and forever._

—           Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem by Bob Hicok

 

 

 

It had been more than a decade since a member of the Akielon royal family had crossed the gates of Arles and, as far as Damen was concerned, it could have stayed that way.

He paced the whole length of his chamber once more. He was restless after three whole days at sea with nothing to fill his days with but the prospect of two weeks of cattiness and boredom in the Veretian capital.

It was an honour to represent the Crown. It was also an honour to christen new ships and kiss newborns’ brows. It didn’t mean Damen enjoyed it. But it was his father’s order and –

His father. Another thought that made his days dragging and unpleasant.

“Exalted?” Lykaios’ quiet voice reached him from behind. She had poured wine in a golden goblet and was holding it, her eyes on the floor, her hand almost trembling, unsure whether to bring it to him or not.

She was accustomed to anticipate his desires, but, Damen supposed, in all her years of service she’d hardly seen him in such a conflicted mood. Had he asked for the wine? He couldn’t remember.

He smiled. “Come here,” he said, and watched as her features relaxed. He brushed Lykaios’ cheek with his knuckles. “Are you nervous?”

He didn’t expect an outright answer.  Not from Lykaios. 

From Erasmus, maybe. He was young, new. Damen wondered where he was. He wouldn't have wanted him here while he brooded, but now his mind had cleared. Erasmus was eager and sweet and got genuinely flustered whenever Damen so much as caressed him. It was thrilling.

He was about to ask Lykaios about him, his arm now circling her thin waist, when she nodded. It took him a moment to understand what she was nodding for, and then he had to keep himself from frowning. 

He tightened his hold. "You needn't be. You're -" _mine_  "with me, there's nothing to be afraid of."

Veretians were sordid snakes, but the thought that any harm could come to a member of his entourage was ludicrous.

But Lykaios didn't look reassured. 

"They say," she spoke like it took a great effort for the words to come out. "They say the new King loathes Akielos. They say he's a snake and he's trying to get revenge in the only way he knows, through subterfuge. That he won't rest until -"

She swallowed and could not continue.

Some months ago, Lykaios may not have know who the Veretian Crown Prince even was, and now he was surrounded by rumours so wild and varied they reached the ears of Akielons royal slaves.

Damen felt touched at Lykaios' concern for his own wellbeing. He knew what was said about Laurent of Vere. But Laurent had sent a king's ransom in gold and jewels to the Akielon court. He'd sent ambassadors to rediscuss trade and travel policies between the two countries. The border hadn't been this quiet since before the war.

"Nothing's going to happen to me," Damen said, looking straight into Lykaios' eyes, and drew her in for a kiss.

If it was all ploy to threaten Akielos, he would give his congratulations to Laurent himself, right before running him through with a sword.

Just like he'd done to his brother.

 

*

 

The journey from Ios to Arles consisted of three days by sea and half a day by horse.

Damen travelled lightly, with a contingent of soldiers, Akielos' best, and a van with servants and slaves. They had docked in Vere that morning and, by afternoon, flanked by the royal guards sent to escort them, they were at Arles. 

Jord, the guards’ captain, approached him. “We’ll enter through the main gates,” he said, and Damen considered protesting just to be difficult.

He knew the palace could be reached directly, without parading through the busiest streets of the city. But he was a guest, and this was a peaceful mission. Let the Veretians have their theatrics.

The welcoming party waited for him in the city square. So did everyone else.

Damen led his ride forward, where everyone could take a good look at him, and scanned the crowd.

Five men of different ages and similar plump figures stood in the middle of it. The council, Damen guessed. Around and behind them, it seemed that the entire population of the court, plus the curious townspeople, had swarmed the square.

Only one person was notably missing. Laurent of Vere wasn't here.

Of course, Damen thought. He wanted Damen to come to him publicly, and wanted all of his subjects to witness it. Damen would let him have this. He'd remind him of who had the upper hand soon enough.

Jord must have sent words ahead that morning, as the members of the council stood stoically, without a trace of surprise on their powdered faces.

The rest of the audience was silent, on edge. Had they recognised him yet? Did they know he wasn’t the royal they were told to expect?

When Damen reached the center of the square, "Welcome," the eldest member of the council, Herode, said, opening his arms.  "Welcome to Vere, Damianos of Akielos."

Laurent’s men knew how to contain the masses, Damen would give them that. There was one single wave of noise, like breath held for too long and finally released, then the crowd stilled once again.

 _Prince-killer_ , someone murmured in an angry whisper, and was shushed just as swiftly.

“We thank you for your hospitality,” Damen proclaimed, so his voice could carry.

He braced himself. It would be hours of formalities before he could unwind, wash the day’s journey off him and maybe indulge Pallas or Aktis, who, although honoured at being chosen, would find a spar with him more interesting than this whole day of posturing.

Nothing that happened here mattered. Vere’s previous government, lead by Laurent’s uncle, had never tried to mend the rift between their two countries. It was unlikely that his council would be much different.

No. Damen was here to speak to Laurent. Everything else was unavoidable, but unnecessary.

He let his mind wander as Councillor Herode continued with his platitudes.

His attention was caught by a boy in aristocratic clothing and the woman next to him, the only two people standing next to the council who weren’t middle-aged noblemen. He saw movements, the boy leaning into her space and saying, his mischievous eyes fixed on Damen, not even pretending he didn’t want to be heard, “He’s going to be so pissed.”

 

*

 

Damen, too, was pissed. The boy’s words haunted him like a pesky lullaby as he waited, still covered in grime, for His Highness to show up.

He was alone in the King’s reception room, two of his guards posted outside. The King had insisted, or so Jord had said. The room was finely adorned, with a wooden table in its center and enough mosaics and tapestries and chandeliers to make Damen dizzy.

Maybe Lykaios was right. Maybe Laurent did want to murder him. Maybe the decoration itself was a weapon.

“A gruelling dilemma.”

The voice was crisp and silvery, honeyed by the melodic lilt typical of the Veretian language.

The King of Vere appeared, slowly, from the shadows. Damen had to suppress first a snort, then a gasp.

He had an image in his mind of how Laurent would look. After all, he remembered his brother. Auguste had been young but imposing, charming like how heroes were in myths.

But Laurent – Laurent wasn’t a hero. At nineteen, he was an otherworldly creature. Lean and perfectly proportionate, like a sculpted block of marble, laced up in jacket so rigid it might count as armour. The deep blue brocade was in stark contrast with his alabaster skin and pale blond head, but his most striking feature were his eyes. Blue and vibrant like sapphires, and just as sharp.

Laurent stopped near the chair at the head of the table. He leant on its side, his body settling in a calculated pose. “Are you quite done?” he asked, pleasantly and a bit bored, and Damen realised that, in this game they were playing, he had already conceded the first win.

“I wish,” Damen said, regaining his footing and foregoing the fraternal we. “I could be resting, or training, or in more pleasant company, and yet I am here, after waiting almost an hour, while we both know it’s too late for any of us to take any substantial political decision.”

“And here I was, waiting for the King of Akielos, when instead I got,” Laurent pursed his lips, “you. See, we’re both having a disappointing evening.”

Laurent pulled back the chair, which scratched loudly on the floors, and sat on it like this was a tavern inn and not a meeting between royals.

Damen sighed. In a tavern inn, at least there’d be wine.

Laurent stretched one leg in front of him and continued, “But as I was saying, a gruelling dilemma. Not showing up at all,” he raised one finger. “Sending a bastard to Vere,” two. “Sending the man who killed the former Crown Prince,” three. “It wasn’t easy not to offend me, I understand.” He opened his palm with a flourish. “I have a very understanding nature. If it happens again, by the way, tell Theomedes I’ll gladly take the bastard.”

Damen balled his hands into fists and lay them on the table, as he could not lay them on Laurent’s cheekbones. His relationship with Kastor was frayed at best, but he wouldn’t let a Veretian spoiled teenager speak in such way of his family. Or of himself.

Who was next in line to the throne of Vere? Maybe he’ll be doing everyone a favour by eliminating Laurent. He couldn’t imagine that such an unpleasant man could be good at leading anything.

“As I’ve already told the council,” Damen said through his teeth, “my father’s presence was required in Ios. He sends his most sincere apologies, but wanted me to reassure you that you can speak to me as if I were him.”

Damen was a future king. He was capable of being the bigger man. He could negotiate with Vere for the sake of Akielos’ wellbeing. He would.

Laurent hummed, tapping his chin with his index finger. “Except, he didn’t cut down my brother with a sword.” And then, his voice changed, turning from saccharine to sour and raw. “So no, Damianos, I’m afraid I cannot speak to you as if you were him. I invited Theomedes to speak, King to King, of the violence that plagues our border and the dissent that’s growing in both our countries as if it was coming from a single source. He accepted my invitation, saying he’ll be coming in person. But he sent you. I’ve seen wars starting for less.”

 _Dissent_. Damen knew there were voices, but in Vere? He thought of his friend Nikandros, warning him to be wary of everyone, even of family.

He thought of his father -

“Go ahead,” Damen said. He was done playing. “We both know who won last time.”

Laurent glared at him, a look so full of hatred and disgust that Damen felt it like a punch. He stood with his palms open on the table. “I’m not my father, as you are not yours. I called you tonight to inform you that you won’t be seeing me again. Feel free to stay, or leave whenever.”

He adjusted his jacket and circled the table, regaining his sardonic grace. “I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure,” he called over his shoulder, before disappearing as he’d entered, “but it hasn’t.”

Well, Damen thought. Time for a bath.

 

*

 

“So he lives.”

Damen was escorted to the royal table by two young servants who looked terrified of him, and assigned a seat next to a woman who looked all too happy to see him. He recognized her from before, in the square.

“I was afraid,” she said as he sat down and perused the banquet hall in front of them. “Our Prince has a poisonous mouth on him.”

“King,” Damen corrected, absentmindedly. He was tired and he knew the number of courses in a Veretian feast could reach double digits. He’d tried excusing himself from it, but he’d taken pity on the servants who’d come to collect him. He’d fear they’d empty their bowels right there on his chamber’s floor if he refused them.

Not to worry, they’d reassured him. Today was to be lighter, as the King was mindful of his long journey. The feast in his honour wouldn’t be for another couple of days.

“Barely.” She smiled. “I’m Vannes, ambassador to Vask and unofficial First Advisor.”

She was neither young nor old, with the distinctive dark colouring of the Vaskians but a poise that was entirely Veretian. She gestured to the woman sitting next to her, who was taller and of rougher appearance even under her opulent leather garments. “This is Talik.”

Damen didn’t need to be told to know Talik was a pet. He nodded at them both.

In Akielos, no one would dare address the King without being spoken to first. But Damen was not in Akielos, and he was not a King. With a mixture of boredom and curiosity, he went with it.

“Why unofficial?” he asked.

“Why put up a fight to officialise something I can do unofficially?” she answered.

“A fight with Laurent?”

“Oh no. With the council.” She sighed and took a sip from her cup of wine. “The King has his hands full with them already.”

Damen mirrored her, the wine washing away some of his discomfort. The day was proving to be interminable.

“I thought,” said Damen, “that the council was supposed to make the King’s job easier.”

“They want to rule. The King wants to rule. As you see, there’s an impasse.”

“But Laurent’s the king.”

By blood, Laurent was the rightful ruler of Vere. Being king meant something where Damen was from. Although maybe, in a case like Laurent’s, it would be for the good of the country to have someone else in charge.

Vere had a Regent until not long ago. He’d been a fair ruler.

“He’s nineteen,” said Vannes, “and obnoxious. He’s more than a year younger than the age required to inherit the throne. He’s lucky he’s the only one left.”

Damen let his eyes wander over the table, then the entirety of the hall. There were no blond heads in sight. “Is the King not going to attend?”

Had Laurent exiled himself from his own meals to avoid Damen?

Vannes gave him a surprised look. “Unlikely. He eats in his rooms most of the times. And today,” she trailed off.

“He must enjoy being disliked,” said Damen. Eating in the same room as the King was one of the biggest honours for a courtier.

“I don’t think he knows otherwise,” said Vannes with a glint in her dark eyes. “But I told you enough. Your turn. What did he say to you?”

Damen took a bite of his first course – scallops with a garlic sauce, tart and quintessentially Veretian – as he stalled. Rulers could be stubborn, but he’d give Laurent some time. Laurent wanted to project an air of calculated aloofness, but their whole conversation had been the product of an impulsive reaction.

Unfortunate, but not unforgivable.

He said, “He’s looking forward to our cooperation.”

“Fine, Akielon,” Vannes snorted. “Keep you secrets.”

“Secrets? What secrets?”

Someone sat down on the empty seat beside Damen, greeting no one and waving his hand at a servant. In a moment, the servant was back with a full plate, which he set down with enough force to make the cutlery clink.

Their new companion was the boy who’d been with Vannes at the parade. The distance hadn’t done him justice. No older than fourteen, he was bathed in the breath-taking beauty of youth, from the careless polish of his luscious brown curls to his huge and limpid blue eyes. And a skin so white and unblemished it could almost rival Laurent’s.

From his colouring, he couldn’t be Vannes’ son. Maybe a nobleman’s? He wore clothes so fine they could be fit for a King. Indeed, the deep sea green of his vest echoed the one Damen has just seen on someone else.

“I’m Nicaise,” the boy said, staring at Damen from under his lashes with an air of pubescent contempt. Then, impatiently, he repeated, “What secrets?”

Vannes gestured toward Damen. “Prince Damianos was just telling me that the King’s looking forward to their cooperation.”

Nicaise scoffed. “Considering the current state of his apartments, either you’re lying or you Akielons are as stupid as they say you are.”

 “Nicaise,” Vannes scolded him half-heartedly, “behave.”

But Damen was too distracted to take offense. _A boy with access to the King’s apartments_.

He said, patiently, “What happened between me and the King is private.”

“He’s the King,” said Nicaise, spearing his scallop with a fork. “Nothing he does is private.”

 

*

 

“Your Highness.” A voice called Damen as he was leaving the Great Hall.

When Damen turned, he was faced with Councillor Guion, his hand raised, as if he’d been about to touch Damen’s shoulder but hadn’t dared. Damen had a vision of breaking a Veretian councillor’s wrist.

“Councillor,” said Damen. He stopped walking.

“I trust everything’s to your satisfaction so far, Your Highness,” Guion said, as if he’d genuinely interrupted him to talk accommodation.

Councillor Guion was a completely unremarkable man. His most interesting feature was the medallion of heavy gold that rested around his neck, symbol of his status.

“Yes,” said Damen. _Everything but your King_.

“Even the seating arrangement? We could move you somewhere else, closer to us Councillors maybe. At a safe distance from the inane chatter of a woman and the King’s pet.”

“I have no complaints regarding the seating arrangement,” said Damen, with the clipped smile that Damen used when he needed to bite his tongue and end tricky discussions.

He didn’t care about the council. He was more focused on Nicaise. Laurent’s pet? But he was so young. Too young to be a companion or a childhood friend.

 “I’m pleased to hear that,” Guion said, nodding. Much to Damen’s chagrin, he wasn’t done.

His features abruptly coloured with concern. “I’ve been informed you’ve had a _tête-à-tête_ with our King. On behalf of the council, I’d like to apologize for anything… untoward the King might have said. He’s a troubled young man who’s been thrown in a position he wasn’t born for. His Uncle always said it, though he tried to correct some of His Highness’… failings. It’s truly a shame, what happened to him.”

“Did he fall ill?” Damen knew about the Regent’s death, not the exact circumstances. He’d heard rumours, but in Vere reality was proving to be more outrageous than gossip.

“A sudden death. A tragedy, really. The palace physician said he died of natural causes, but -” Guion brought his hand to his mouth and averted his eyes. “I shouldn’t say. One shouldn’t make unproven insinuations about his King.”

 Damen’s eyes widened in horror. What Councillor Guion was implying was clear as day. Was it a warning for Damen? Guion looked dim and harmless. He may not have realized the magnitude of what he was saying.

Could Laurent be capable of such a heinous gesture? Of dirtying his hands with the blood of his family?

“Ah, but I’ve said too much already.” Guion gave him a rueful smile. “I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your evening, Your Highness.” He took a bow and, as he was leaving, he added, “And make sure not to miss the performances in the ring. No one does entertainments like the Veretians.”

 

*

 

The next day, Damen was summoned by the council.

He hadn’t followed Councillor Guion’s advice about the entertainments. He’d been too tired, of the journey and of the Veretians.

He’d rested on a luxuriously soft bed and spent the morning savouring first a breakfast of rich cheeses with honey and nuts, then Erasmus’ company in the baths. He was no stranger to political trips, and knew some things were enjoyable everywhere.

He sat down at the council’s table with every intention to ignore any comment about the barbarian nature of his home country and settle whatever matter the council found so urgent.

“It has been brought to attention that, from previous negotiations, an agreement hasn’t been reached about the official exchange rate between our two currencies,” said Councillor Jeurre. Or who Damen guessed was Jeurre. It could be Chelaut. It could be Audin.

Vannes had pointed them to him last night at supper. She’d said Jeurre would rather lose his tongue than utter a plain sentence. It sounded like him.

“There seems to be a discrepancy between the value of gold coins in silver coins,” Jeurre continued, “which appears to favour purchases made with Akielon silver instead of gold.”

Damen subtly bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from yawning and slid down on his stiff wooden chair. It was going to be a long, tedious meeting. He almost wished for Lau –

"And there goes my plan to bankrupt Akielos,” said the King of Vere, entering the room with the quirk of an actor walking on stage. He sat in the same place of the day before, and in the same insouciant pose. His intolerable blue eyes scanned the room.

“Maybe I haven't been clear enough when I told you I wouldn't collaborate with Prince Damianos. But forgetfulness is to be expected when you're past a certain age. Isn't it, Guion?"

"Your Highness,” answered Guion. “I was informed you'd gone -"

"Riding?” said Laurent. “You should know I'm quite fast. So, what's on the agenda? Or are we going to bore Damianos with financial matters all day? Our merchants handle the silver issue with no troubles at all. I think we can leave it to them."

Damen was already tired. He hadn't come here to hear bickering. Staring firmly at Laurent, he said, "There's the matter of the raids in Delpha."

Laurent himself had brought it up yesterday. He couldn't deny it now.

"The situation in the area hasn't been this good since before your country decided to run an army through it."

"If you don't wish to discuss the border," said Guion, like one speaks to a difficult child, "why did you invite an Akielon representative to court?"

The question raised soft murmurings from the other Councillors, which, to Damen's surprise, weren't promptly shut down by Laurent's serpentine tongue.

"I," he said.

It was a miracle: Damen hadn't thought him capable of shutting up.

“We have to understand.” It was Herode who interrupted the tense silence. “After what happened to Auguste...”

“Yes,” said Guion. “The attachment of His Highness to his brother was always very,” he paused, then, pointedly, “ _tight_.”

The words resonated in the room like an accusation.

“Don’t you dare,” seethed Laurent, rising from his chair, “speak of my brother.”

Everyone stilled, even Guion. Laurent breathed audibly and sat back down.

“I will not discuss Delfeur with Prince Damianos,” he said, calmly, like nothing had happened.

But Damen was past annoyance. He was furious now. He hadn’t come here to abide to the tantrums of the King of Vere.

Not when his father –

“If we’re not discussing Delpha, I won’t stay here,” he said. “I’ll board the first ship to Akielos.”

He thought he’d seen a shadow of terror flash in Laurent’s eyes, but soon the King of Vere was shrugging with renewed theatricality. It had probably been a trick of Damen’s mind.

“Now, let us not be hasty,” said Herode. “We can postpone Delfeur to a later meeting. There are plenty of other matters. How about the increased duties on imports from Isthima?”

Isthima had historically maintained a separate legislation from the rest of Akielos, which meant different duties. It was on his father’s lists of things to settle.

Damen felt the eyes of the council on him.

He nodded. The discussion resumed.

 

*

 

That night, Damen didn’t skip the entertainments.

The meeting had lasted well into the afternoon. Laurent had been adequately unbearable, but he’d let the council handle most of the stipulations.

Reluctantly, Damen could admit they’d made some tentative progresses.

Dinner had been pleasant. When he got to the ring, he was in good spirits.

It didn’t take long for Damen to gather that Councillon Guion’s remark had been an understatement.

The ring was placed in a grandiose circular room with a glass ceiling on top of it, which let the natural light of the moon and the starts filter in. Torches were lit all around it, their warm flames flickering and giving the room an edge of danger and wilderness.

The pompous, jewelled noblemen and their pets could sit on the marble reclines all around it, lounge on silk pillows and furs, and pretend they weren’t about to witness a choreographed spectacle.

At least, Damen hoped it was choreographed.

Two thin, polished pets were fighting, half-naked, in the middle of the ring. But fighting wasn’t the right word. They were tugging at each other’s flimsy clothes, grabbing and groping in a way that seemed more reluctant foreplay than an attempt to win.

At turn, the two struggled to get on top of the other, with legs sliding in between thighs and rags being shoved out of the way.

The audience roared every time one of the two got closer to climbing on the other. Damen was realizing, with increasing consternation, that this was but a prelude for the actual act.

Damen clutched the armrests of his chair. He felt increasingly trapped, in this arena and in this rotten and amoral court. He’d been away less than a week, but he had a deep longing for home, where everything was straight-forward and people didn’t hide their debauchery under the pretence of a performance. He thought of Jokaste – she would find this hilarious, and lift Damen’s mood with veiled insults and barbed comments. He thought of his father, bound –

He flattened his feet on the ground. He would leave. He would –

A hand on his shoulder startled him. Even more, the smooth, velvety voice that accompanied it.

“Care for a walk?”

Damen found himself staring into a pair of taunting blue eyes. Laurent’s figure was a slice of ice in between the fervent energy of the room. Laurent, dressed like an ascetic in a room full of laxities. Damen almost smiled at it.

The crowd around them let out gasps and breaths, growing louder as the performance approached its inevitable climax.

“Believe me,” said Laurent. “It ends exactly as you think it does.”

Damen was quick to follow him outside.

Laurent led him through the gardens, where bushes and shrubs were neatly trimmed into geometrical mazes and the intoxicatingly sweet scent of flowers cascaded from pergolas made of wood as finely braided as a maiden’s hair.

They walked in silence, following an aimless path, surrounded by the faint sound of the fountains and of the courtiers chatting as they strolled.

Damen tried not to, but every so often his eyes fell upon Laurent, as he looked up at the sky with his hands behind his back, or brushed his long fingers against a hedge, or simply walked, with an elegance that was unfair and wasted on such a mercurial creature.

“That boy was about to be raped,” said Damen. It wouldn’t do to forget that Laurent’s beauty was just a cover for his rotten core. “He’s being raped right now.”

“Not everything is as black and white as you make it out to be,” Laurent answered. His voice was tired. “As degrading as it may be, being fucked at the end of a performance you’ve consented to take part in is not the same as being turned over and mounted against your will.”

Laurent spoke matter-of-factly, but he didn’t look at Damen, his gaze lost on an apricot tree.

The night was growing darker around them, the gardens emptier. A pleasant breeze rustled the leaves, gentle, a promise of summer.

He squeezed one of the apricots, still green and unripe, between his long fingers.

“As killing an enemy on the battlefield,” he said softly, “is not the same as murdering someone in cold blood. Even I can admit that.”

Damen took the words for what they were: a statement and nothing more. War was war, and Damen had nothing to apologize for. But he didn’t blame Laurent for this, for letting Auguste’s ghost intrude into their conversations. After all, Damen was a constant remainder of Auguste’s death.

“If you know it’s degrading,” Damen asked, changing the subject before Laurent could defoliate the entire tree, “why do you let it happen?”

“You of all people should know that Kings always have less power than they think they do,” said Laurent, giving a final wistful tag to a branch.

He turned, his neck a long, graceful curve, his mouth a half smile.

“But please, lecture me on how easy it is to ban a long-standing tradition that thrives on commercializing the lowest social classes and stripping them of their free will. Or did your two slaves have a say in their coming to Vere?”

Damen blinked at the comparison.

“My slaves receive perfect treatment, like any other slave in Akielos,” he said. “Nothing like what happened in that ring would ever be inflicted to a slave. It’s unlawful.”

“How you can equate perfect treatment as being used as portable holes is beyond me.”

“Portable -” Damen sputtered. “They’re not _that_.”

“No? Can they refuse you?”

 _Refuse him?_ “It never happened.”

Laurent fixed his cold blue eyes on him, his grin almost feral.

“I understand that it could be hard for you to imagine someone who doesn’t want to get plowed by the mighty warrior cock of the Crown Prince of Akielos, although I assure you, there are. But I am sure Akielos, like Vere, has her fair share of disgusting lecherous fat old noblemen. Only our noblemen, if they want their disgusting and lecherous dicks sucked, pay someone for it. Yours only need to grab one of their poor, beautiful, perfectly submissive slaves and feed it to them. Is it a hard stretch to conceive that some slaves you’ve so diligently trained may have preferred to be treated a little less than perfectly, but given the choice to decide whether they wanted to dedicate their lives to sucking a vile nobleman’s dick?”

Damen swallowed. He’d been in barracks and had spent countless hours training, eating and sleeping with soldiers of any background, and they had done little to prepare him for Laurent of Vere’s tongue.

It wasn’t like this. He thought of his household, of Lykaios and Erasmus who were probably eating sweetmeats as they combed each other’s hair. Of the lives they would have outside of the palace.

Serving the royal family was an honourable fate. Slavery was one of the most ancient traditions in the Akielon culture and their society was more stable because of it.

With that thought in mind, he ignored the uneasy clench he felt in his gut.

“At least we don’t take advantage of children,” he said, even if the words scratched his tongue like wet sand. “Especially not the King. Nicaise told me today he’s been at court since he was ten. Isn’t he your pet? Did he have a choice too?”

Damen steeled himself for the defensive torrent of rage and fury that Laurent was about to spill on him. He wasn’t afraid of words, least of all those of a wicked, corrupt man.

But Laurent didn’t. He closed his eyes, briefly. When he reopened them, they flickered to a faraway point, their blue somewhat duller.

“No,” said Laurent. “He had no choice. Would you excuse me.”

As he left, Damen felt, ridiculously, that he should follow. He didn’t.

 

*

 

The third day passed in a similar, uneventful manner. The castle was at once subdued and in turmoil, for Damen had been deemed sufficiently rested: the following day the court would depart on a hunt that would occupy the entire day, then come back for a feast and a special display created especially to please Prince Damianos.

But Damen couldn’t complain. At least he hadn’t spoken with Laurent all day, except when the King of Vere had come to reassure him the next day would be as nightmarish as it sounded.

“But I’ve checked,” he’d added. “We have a horse big enough to carry you.”

Boar hunting was not as diffused in Akielos as it was in Vere. Nonetheless, it involved riding and strength. For the last days, Damen had contented himself with training with his sword in the small arena next to his chambers. He welcomed the chance to spend some time outdoors.

The hunt was a performance, like everything else in Vere. The actual hunting party consisted of a couple of dozens noblemen and women, including Vannes and Talik. The hunt was probably the apex of their outdoor lives.

Among them, two stood out: Aimeric, Guion’s youngest son, who held himself like he was trying to impress his King even with his breathing; and Laurent, beautiful and disdainful, as no one had to forget his presence here was a mere courtesy.

The rest of the court would wait in comfortable perfumed tents, surrounded by servants who provided a steady stream of food and refreshments.

Damen had brought Erasmus with him, and told himself he hadn’t done it because it would irritate Laurent. Erasmus had confessed, in a shy whisper, that he dreamt of seeing the world. He would enjoy the Veretian extravagance.

Lykaios had stayed in the palace. Even to him, an unwed woman had seemed too much of an insult to the Veretian sensibilities about bastards and the proximity between men and women.

“Wait for me here,” Damen told Erasmus when it was time to mount. Erasmus would stay in the tent with two of Damen’s guards to take care of him while Damen and Pallas rode.

He brushed a hand on locks of burnt gold on Erasmus’ head and Erasmus flushed and looked at the ground, his mouth curled in a sweet, bashful smile.

With the corner of his eyes, Damen caught Laurent staring in their direction. He stood near the exit of the tent, clad in tight black leathers, a dark stroke against the soft yellow light of the afternoon.

With one last cool look, he turned and left the tent.

By the time Damen joined the rest of the hunting party, Laurent was fully mounted. He rode a grey mare, slim and perfect for hunting, his seat as confident as if the horse was an extension of himself.

A servant brought Damen his horse. It was a black, powerful beast, disproportionately large. For a moment, Damen imagined Laurent personally handpicking it for his amusement.

“Was that an attempt to annoy me?” asked Laurent when Damen, too, had mounted. He pointed at the royal tent with a lift of his chin.

“What was?” Damen replied, feigning ignorance. Laurent’s ego didn’t need the boost. “You don’t occupy as many of my thoughts as you think you do, Your Highness.”

Their height difference was more prominent on horseback. Damen took great pleasure in staring down at him as they waited.

“Rumours say you have a lover in Akielos,” Laurent continued. “A woman.” The word sounded almost foreign in his mouth.

 _Jokaste_.

Damen smirked. “So?”

“Not enough to satisfy you?”

“Jokaste doesn’t attend me in the baths, or help me dress.” He smiled at the idea. “If I asked her to fetch me a glass wine at the table, she’d probably spit in it.”

And that wasn’t factoring the cold detachment that had been plaguing their brief encounters, mostly carnal, as of lately. The thought sent a pang to Damen’s chest, but he didn’t dwell on it.

“You could pay someone to do those things for you,” said Laurent, his calm features fixed in an unreadable expression.

 _Why does it matter?_ Damen wanted to ask, as if last night’s conversation wasn’t still raw in his mind.

A horn blew before he could talk, signalling game. The hunt could begin.

Laurent’s mare moved at the faintest touch of heels on her flank and, with effortless grace, he lead the party into the woods.

Boar hunting was a dangerous sport. _Sangliers_ were wild, rabid animals. They didn't tire easily, and would fight the hunter to the death.

It was a matter of force and patience. The beast needed to be weakened by horse, before the hunter dismounted and finished it with a dagger or a spear. If the boar found strength in its final moments, it could resist, injure, kill.

The hunt was long, more exciting than Damen had expected. Laurent didn't break a sweat as he rode forward, relentless, in a show of power that spoke of practice and habit.

Being the one to run down the mark was an honour, one that Damen didn't care much for. He'd already showed Vere his superiority six years prior, at Marlas. Let Laurent get the boar. Or Aimeric, who rode restlessly, too close to the King, eager to be acknowledge.

But Aimeric, unlike Laurent, was as much of a pampered nobleman as he seemed. He could ride, sure. He could even hold a spear.

He could get close to the mark, the _sanglier_ studying him with his tiny, furious black eyes, each breath a groan that shook the air around Aimeric. But the beast didn't fear him. When Aimeric stroke, it did too.

Damen saw Laurent moving out of the corner of his eyes, but he was already on the ground, dagger in his hand.

He took hold of Aimeric's jacket and shoved him out of the way, Aimeric so still and frightened he cut Damen's thigh with the blade he was wielding, uselessly, in front of him.

Damen didn't register the pain. He had to take care of the boar first.

But he was too late. When he looked, the boar lay on the ground, lifeless. Beside it, Laurent was already cleaning his hands on a rag a guard had given him. 

He'd killed it, ruthlessly and efficiently, without even a sound.

"Jord, accompany the Prince of Akielos to the physician's tent," Laurent called as he got back on horseback, not sparing anyone a glance. "And find Aimeric a new pair of pants."

 

*

 

It was a shallow cut. If Damen had been in a war tent, he may not have patched it at all.

But he was in Vere, and the physician, Paschal, insisted on stitching it, putting ointment on it, dressing it and giving Damen a precise schedule for changing his bandages.

It was tedious. Damen stayed still for it, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Laurent was an endless source of surprise. Every time Damen was convinced he’d figured him out, he discovered something that contradicted everything he held true.

"Anything on your mind, Your Highness?" asked Paschal as he applied the ointment.

Again, it was a behaviour more brazen than it would be tolerated in Akielos. Damen was getting used it. Even more, Damen was learning to take advantage of it.

He said, "I assume the King likes hunting."

"Yes,” said Paschal. His mouth twitched, in surprise or amusement; Damen couldn’t tell.  “He and his uncle often went hunting in Chastillon, where there's more game."

The words hang in the air between them.

It wasn’t just Auguste’s ghost who was haunting Damen’s stay in Vere. It was the Regent’s too.

Damen registered, in the back of his mind, that Paschal had probably been the one to do the Regent’s post-mortem.

"How was he?"

"The Regent?" At Damen’s nod, Paschal continued, "It wouldn't do to speak ill of dead people."

Before he could think better of it, Damen asked, "And the King?"

There it was again, Paschal’s twitch of the mouth.

"It's also unfair to ask to speak ill of the people who are currently in charge."

"Would you, if you could?"

"Your Highness,” said Paschal, patiently, “the King is not your enemy. Nor you are his, if only he would accept it."

It wasn’t the question to Damen’s answer. There was something behind Paschal’s words Damen couldn’t quite grasp, but it seemed important.

"I can’t blame him,” said Damen and, startlingly, found he meant it. “I am responsible for his brother's death."

Paschal said, "Responsibilities often lie in more hands than a single man's. Especially during wartime.”

Damen, who was positive he’d been the only one to cut down Auguste, frowned, but said nothing.

“Done,” Paschal announced with a last touch on the delicate dressing. “You’re free, Your Highness.”

Damen walked back to the royal tent with a stiff thigh and a spinning mind. Layers of deception hid behind every word he was said. He was fluent in Veretian, yet he had no means to decipher it.

He found Erasmus in the place he’d left him, placidly waiting on a silk cushion, and felt calmer at the sight alone. Erasmus perked up, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, then promptly shook his head and lowered it almost to the ground.

“I’m sorry for taking so long,” said Damen, his voice low and reassuring. He gently cupped Erasmus’ chin and nudged it upwards. Erasmus’ cheeks were warm, but his face was slack with relief.

All the others had come back long before Damen. He must have been concerned.

Erasmus stared at him with liquid blue eyes. “Exalted,” he said, shy, “are you well now?”

He held his breath at his own boldness.

So someone had spoken to him. Damen was sure what happened had been the leading topic of conversation in the tent, but Erasmus didn’t speak Veretian. Neither did most of Damen’s guard.

“I am well,” Damen said, tangling his hand in Erasmus’ curls. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

He didn’t need to explain, but it felt right to. Erasmus was – it wasn’t what Laurent had said. He was part of Damen’s life. And Damen was his whole world.

Erasmus said, quickly, “Oh, Exalted. You have so many other thoughts. You mustn’t care about this slave’s worries. Seeing you well is my greatest joy.”

“It was just a shallow cut,” Damen said, and Erasmus nodded. “But someone warned you. Who do I have to thank?”

Immediately, Erasmus averted his gaze and a deep flush spread from his cheeks all over, up to his ears and down his neck. “Oh,” he exhaled. “He was so nice. So considerate.” He was tripping over his words.

“Who was?”

“The King. Laurent-Exalted,” said Erasmus, using the Akielon honorific. “I am nothing and he thought of someone like me anyway.”

Damen frowned. “Laurent?” he repeated. _But Laurent is disgusted by –_

“Yes. He was,” Erasmus, if possible, blushed even more, “so kind. He told me you’d been hurt, but I needn’t worry. That you saved a man’s life and I should be proud.”

Damen looked around the tent, but he spotted no blond heads. Did Laurent really – what was he trying to –

He heard Erasmus gasp next to him. He was new, but he was already attuned to Damen’s moods. He had trained his whole life to be.

“Should I not have spoken to him?” Erasmus asked, mortified, his voice little more than a whisper. His eyes, once again, on the ground.

“You did nothing wrong, Erasmus,” said Damen, and petted his curls again.

 

*

 

The feast was in Damen’s honour.

That meant the menu was longer and featured the best of Vere’s cuisine, plus an Akielon dish to make him feel welcome. The boar was roasting on a fire in a corner of the room, a reminder of their King’s prowess. In a show of opulence, servants who usually had other tasks would serve at the table.

It meant the dresses were more extravagant, the people cheerier, the wine sweeter and more generously poured.

It meant, more prominently, that Laurent had to attend, and Damen had to sit next to him.

It was good etiquette, as long as no one got stabbed with a fork.

Laurent had traded his endless collection of dark blue jackets for a silver one that reflected the candlelight like shards of gold. Laces run all over its back and sleeves in neat lines. Damen imagined Laurent standing in the middle of the room with servants surrounding him, pulling and knotting on each side. He imagined how long it would take to take it off.

Laurent sat on the dais with his typical air of nonchalance, but he looked… peaceful. More peaceful than Damen had ever seen him.

“Congratulations on the hunt,” said Damen, shifting closer to Laurent. Unlike everyone else, he didn’t need to wait to be addresses to speak to him.

He felt two pairs of blue eyes land on him like darts. Nicaise’s, huge and sceptical; and Laurent’s, bright as the golden circlet resting on his golden head.

“Congratulations on not letting Aimeric get skewered. Those things tend to spoil the mood,” said Laurent. He let his gaze wander over Damen’s figure. “How’s the thigh?”

“Soaked in enough salve to dirty all of my chitons.”

“Paschal does love his salves,” Laurent said, voice like a laughter.

“He’s an interesting man. He told me you used to go hunt in Chastillon with your uncle. You must miss him.”

“As any nephew would,” said Laurent, stiffly. He’d been staring intently at Damen, but now he looked away.

 _Guilt_ , thought Damen. He’d seen that look on Laurent already, the night before.

“But I don’t want to talk about my uncle,” Laurent continued, lifting his eyes to Damen’s once again. “Tonight’s for celebration.”

He waved to a servant and ordered, “Fill Prince Damianos’ cup.”

The servant materialized wine out of thin air and did as he was bid: he filled Damen’s cup, and only his.

“Are you letting the guest of honour of drink alone?” asked Damen.

“I don’t drink,” was the tense response.

“Never?”

Laurent hummed. _Never_.

All the improbable liveliness Damen had seen in him before was gone. Laurent’s personal matters weren’t Damen’s business, but he couldn’t ignore his instinct that something was amiss. That Laurent’s action weren’t spurred by malice, but by a sadness and grief Damen couldn’t comprehend.

It may have been Damen’s instinctual, inexplicable uneasiness in the face of Laurent’s gloom. It may have been Nicaise’s expectant gaze on him.

But Damen took a deep breath, leant back onto his seat and said, with a light, teasing voice, “Do you have something to hide, Your Highness?”

The curling of Laurent’s mouth was instantaneous, involuntary. Laurent paused. Damen guessed something complicated and very Veretian was going on in that resplendent blond head.

When he’d come to a conclusion, whatever that was, Laurent tilted his head in Damen’s direction.

“Maybe I do it _,_ ” he said, shockingly, in the sweetest Akielon Damen had ever heard.

“Nice accent.” Damen said around a grin and then, because he wanted the satisfaction, “But it’s ‘maybe I do’.”

“If I corrected you every time you butcher my mother tongue,” said Laurent in fastidious Veretian, “we’d get less done in council meetings than we do now.”

But Damen was enjoying it too much. “Did you just switch because it was too articulated?” Again, in Akielon, “It’s no trouble, Your Highness. Thankfully, my Veretian’s better than your Akielon.”

“Your Veretian’s impeccable,” Laurent smirked, as if putting the Akielon word for impeccable into a sentence had been his greatest achievement of the day. “Particularly when you said Veretian food had too many bastards in it.”

“I did not –“Damen faltered. “When?”

With a glint in his eyes, Laurent declared, “Salty is _salé_ , not _salaud_.”

Yesterday, Damen remembered. During a break, he’d been engaged in a pointless discussion about the merits of Veretian culture. Damen was quiet sure that wasn’t the most insulting thing he’d said.

 “Did I offend your delicate sensibilities? You should have said.”

“Why? Best moment in any council meeting I’ve ever attended. I thought Guion was going to have a stroke.”  Laurent let out a small, pleased giggle. It was so uncharacteristic Damen almost convinced himself it had been the sound of glasses clinking together. He seemed relaxed, not a day older than his nineteen years.

Nineteen. Had Damen been ready to be king at nineteen?

But it wasn’t a good comparison. Damen had been born and bred to be king all his life. He’d had teachers. He had his father, grooming him into his role. He had the support of an entire nation behind him, and his family too. His father. Kastor. Jokaste.

Laurent’s family was dead.

“Speaking of things that may cause Guion to have a stroke.” Laurent gestured to the side of the great hall with a minute nod of his head, his lips slightly parted.

Damen followed his line of sight. From the centre of the dais, they had a privileged view. In the half-light of one of the side entrances two shadows lingered – speaking? Embracing?

He couldn’t make out who they belonged to, but he only needed to wait.

The shadows merged one last time, then one walked away and into the hall. Damen’s eyes widened. It was Aimeric. Less than a minute later, Jord followed.

 _“Subtle,”_ said Laurent, looking back at Damen with eyes full of mischief.

Vere encouraged same-sex relationships. It was the norm. But the son of a Councillor with a member of the guard, mere steps away from the court nonetheless –

“Jord is –“

“A commoner,”  said Laurent, “yes.”

“Do you think they really –“

Damen was confident no one in their immediate vicinity could speak Akielon, but their voices were dropping to hushed, conspiratorial whispers all the same.

Laurent nodded. Then, with an enlarging smile, “Do you think it was the pants?”

Damen laughed. Some curious gazes fell on him for it from across the table, but he couldn’t help it. It made sense: the thrill of the hunt, the fear of the beast, the relief of being saved. Damen had prevented Aimeric from being hurt, but Jord had rescued him. And Laurent, with that crude suggestion, had been the unintentional matchmaker.

“Most definitely,” said Damen. “Laurent, the Love King.”

Laurent snorted, and made even that seem elegant. “That would be a,” he paused, whirled his long fingers in the air as he searched for the word in Akielon. In the end, “ _Coup de théâtre_ ,” he said, in Veretian.

“Twist,” Damen provided automatically. But Laurent didn’t look offended.

His mouth moved around the letters, spelling the word without emitting a sound, like he was filing it away for future use.

Jord and Aimeric. It made sense indeed. And yet, some hours ago Damen would have sworn he’d seen Aimeric make eyes at Laurent.

“I thought he was aiming at you,” he said, teasing but soft, only a bit more than a breath.

Laurent, just as airily, “He wouldn’t have had much luck.”

“Why?” asked Damen, dazed and emboldened by their proximity, the wine, the way Laurent seemed to shine from within. He dragged his hand closer to Laurent’s on the table, the only part of him that was uncovered below his face. At his wrist the jacket was kept closed by a bow so perfect it was either the product of a skilled hand or a lot of tries. He hooked the tip of his index finger in one of the two loops. He said, “Too difficult to undress to take a lover?”

The change was abrupt. Laurent's body stiffened, from his back straightening to his fingers widening, as if fighting not to curl them into tight fists.

Damen removed his hand.

He glanced around, but no one was minding them, taken by the food, the chatter, the musician playing slow, unobtrusive Veretian songs in a corner. Except Nicaise. Nicaise, placed next to Laurent, was leaning forward and staring at the spot where their hands had almost touched.

"Nicaise," Damen called, though his attention was still on Laurent. But his expression was blank. "Did you have fun this afternoon?"

The words tasted awkward in his mouth, in Veretian once again.

Nicaise hesitated. He, too, searched Laurent's face, his teeth worrying his bottom lip.

But Laurent nodded, a single tilt of his blond head.

At the signal from his King, Nicaise wrinkled his nose and proceeded to recount, with fervid details, all the ways the afternoon had been tedious and lacklustre.

Laurent smiled indulgently at the boy and, whenever he wasn't busy eating, kept his hand on his thigh.

 

*

 

Damen needed a breather.

The feast was over, but the courtiers lingered, caught in the excitement of the day and unwilling to let it go.

Laurent had just excused himself. He'd addressed to the room at large, speaking in a firm, kind voice of the importance of hospitality and thanked the court for their support. "And, about the boar, you're welcome," he'd quipped. The people were hanging off of his every word, utterly charmed.

He'd thanked Damen, too. Damen had stood up and thanked him back. It was a charade he'd already had to endure, one that was bound to get repeated at least once more before his journey back to Akielos. Such was the nature of royal formalities.

The court's reception of Damen was still cold and wary. That, too, wasn't likely to change.

Now that Laurent had left, Damen felt restless and uncomfortable. He couldn't bear sitting down anymore, nor he expected to be able to sleep.

He stood up. He needed to clear his thoughts. To do it, he walked to the place that first had muddled them.

The gardens were almost empty. Damen retraced the path he’d walked with Laurent, through the mazes and up to the apricot trees.

Someone was following him, had been since the beginning. The steps were light, barely louder than the rustling of the leaves, but Damen had good hears. They were too soft and careful to mash with his guards’. Probably too light to belong to a grown man.

Damen sat on a bench beneath an apricot tree and let Nicaise gather his courage and come to him.

Once positive that Damen had indeed seen him, Nicaise approached him with a confident stride. His clothes were mirrors of Laurent’s, only looser on the collar. His chestnut curls fell in luscious swirls over his forehead and ears, which, together with his huge blue eyes and round cheeks, gave him an appearance of innocence and vulnerability.

Damen wasn’t sure what to make of Nicaise and Laurent’s relationship. They weren’t lovers, that he knew. No part of their behaviour indicated anything but a profound, conflictual brotherly bond.

Behaviours could be altered. Private and public lives could be so different one would think they belonged to two separate people.

But no King, no matter how mad, would let his child lover sit beside him on the dais. No council would allow it.

“Were you looking for me?” asked Damen, gesturing Nicaise to sit down.

Nicaise did. He pressed his palms on the bench and leant on them, straightening and slightly arching his back, but he didn’t succeed much in seeming taller.

“I was just strolling,” said Nicaise, casually. “This is the King’s favourite path. His habits are quite boring.” He glanced up at Damen. “It would be hard not to see you.”

Damen smiled. He wouldn’t call Nicaise on his lie.

“Did he bring you here?” Nicaise asked.

“Yes.” Unlike him, Damen saw no point in lying.

Was Nicaise jealous? Not in an inappropriate way, but like younger brothers are jealous of their older brother’s friends.

 _Friends_. Damen shuddered at the thought.

“Why?” Nicaise frowned.

“It was just a walk, Nicaise.”

“A walk?” Nicaise shook his head. He shifted closer, daringly, but Damen saw his fingers trembling on the cool marble. “He doesn’t do those things. I know him.”

Half of his face was in the shadows now, darkness caressing his youthful traits. His wicked grin was jarring, discordant, almost absurd.

“I saw the way you look at him.” Nicaise no longer spoke like a snotty court boy. His voice was breathy, indecent. “It’s a waste of time. The King is frigid, everybody knows that. And getting under the man who killed his brother? No, you can’t have him. You never will.” As the final, grotesque part of his act, he brought his hand to Damen’s thigh, so cold and light it barely registered on Damen’s chiton. “But you can have me.”

Damen was shocked into stillness. The pressure poked on his dagger wound. That, maybe, was what stirred him in the end.

“Are you out of your mind,” he not quite asked. The answer was yes. _Like everyone else in this court._ Then, at Nicaise’s crestfallen expression, “You are a child.”

His limbs were stiffened by a disorienting anger, but he was gentle when he grabbed Nicaise’s wrist and moved it off his leg. He wouldn’t hurt him. His rage was not enough to cover the fact that Nicaise’s was a learnt behaviour.

Someone had set him up to this. Damen had a clear idea of who that was.

He stood up and brought Nicaise up with him. Nicaise’s mouth was gaping in fright, his cheeks as red as apples.

“Bring me to the King,” Damen ordered. When there was no answer, he put his other hand on Nicaise’s shoulder and shook him. “Bring me to Laurent. Now.”

“No.” Nicaise tried to jerk away, as much as Damen’s hold would allow. Damen knew, if Nicaise struggled, he’d let him go.

“I won’t hurt you,” said Damen, not as a warning but as a plea. “If you want to run, I’ll let you. But I’ll talk to the King whether you’re there or not. Bring me to him, and give your version too.”

_Bring me to him, and I’ll make sure he won’t hurt you too._

Nicaise shook his head, his eyes wet with humiliation, but he took off in the direction of the palace.

The royal apartments were placed almost on the other side of the palace. By the time they got there, Damen’s fury had magnified. He’d let himself be fooled by Laurent’s pretty face once again – the dinner, the playful way they’ve spoken to each other. His ridiculous, wandering thoughts.

But this time was the last.

He would leave. He would expose Laurent for the monster he was and sail back to Akielos, where he was needed. No one could fault Akielos for not having tried.

 _You fight Veretians, you don’t trust them._ His father had been right all along.

Two guards stood outside Laurent’s chamber. Damen recognized their faces.

Royal guards were usually composed of second or third sons of noblemen with good ties to the crown, but Laurent’s were of a different, rougher sort. Those two were no exception.

They regarded him and Nicaise, then shared a look of apprehension.

Damen didn’t blame them. Their hopes for a quiet night had just vanished.

“I need to speak to the King,” said Damen.

Before one could protest, the other was already nodding. “Huet,” he said with a pointed look at the other guard.

Of all the bizarre things Damen had witnessed tonight, he added seeing Laurent’s guards silently arguing on whose turn it was to disturb the King.

Finally, Huet slipped inside Laurent’s door. He re-emerged a moment later, his face a tad paler: a typical side effect of being in Laurent’s presence.

“The King will see you now,” said Huet, and let them in.

Illogically, Damen had imagined to find Laurent fully clothed and laced up, maybe sitting at a desk while he plotted how to make everybody’s life more miserable.

He wasn’t. Laurent had stood up, but one of his legs was still bent on the reclining couch where he’d probably been resting. He had a book in his hands and was using a finger to keep mark of the page.

The laces of his white shirt were open, exposing Laurent’s diaphanous throat and a sliver of his pale chest. It was more skin he’d ever shown.

He stared at them with curious surprise, as if he’d no idea why they could be here, but he didn’t mind the visit. It was hard to reconcile this sight with who Laurent really was.

Oh, how appearances could be deceiving.

“Nicaise and I had a nice chat in the gardens,” said Damen, striding forward and urging Nicaise with him. “But I bet you already know. Was this your plan? Sending a child into my bed?”

This time, Nicaise did struggle. Damen let go of his arm.

“Nicaise,” Laurent stiffened and paled, his words drenched with horror. He dropped his book on the couch.

If he was faking it, it was a good act. He came forward, closer to Nicaise.

His eyes flickered to Damen. He looked stricken, like the blow had been a physical one, but the heartache was mixed with something else. Something like resignation.

He was startled, genuinely so. Not bewildered, like Damen had been, but resigned, as if what had happened hadn’t been a surprise but a relapse.

Faced with Laurent’s insistent gaze, Damen became acutely aware that Laurent wanted him to leave.

Well, he thought as he crossed his arms and settled more comfortably against the wall. Laurent would have to deal with his presence.

Maybe what Damen was about to witness was another charade. Maybe Laurent had planned for this too, in case his scheme backfired.

He glanced at Nicaise. He expected to find him furious, ready to throw insults at his King and at the barbarian Prince who’d brought him here. He’d heard Nicaise take liberties before.

But Nicaise was shaking, his small hands curled into fists against his sides, his neck almost buried into his shoulders.

“You can’t scold me,” Nicaise said to Laurent. “I did it for you.”

Damen had been right. He made to take a step forward, torn between grinning and frowning at the gravity of the situation, when Nicaise’s voice cracked.

“I thought it was what you wanted,” Nicaise shrilled, voice high and wet. “Seduce the barbarian, find out his secrets. Why else would you keep me for? You let me live here when your Uncle died. You feed me. You clothe me. You pay -” he choked back a sob, bringing his fists to his eyes and trying, angrily, uselessly, to wipe them. “Pay for those stupid private tutors. And for what? You don’t fuck me. You don’t let others fuck me either. Then what am I here for?”

All the breath had left Damen, or maybe there was no more air in the room at all. Laurent was as still as he was, two wax figures with a trembling kid between them.

It was Laurent who moved. He enveloped Nicaise in his arms and leant down so they were of a height. 

Nicaise dissolved into tears. His hands were no longer at his sides, but in front of his chest, maintaining a last barrier between him and Laurent, but his body was slumped into Laurent's embrace.

Laurent was murmuring into Nicaise's ear, too soft for Damen to catch what he was saying. 

In his stead, Damen wouldn't have any words. _In Akielos we don't fuck boys_ , he thought, again, then recognised how naive that sounded. Evil knew no nationality, no border.

He thought of his conversation with Guion, his first night in Vere. How adamant Guion had been to praise the Regent while he dragged Laurent's name in the mud. 

It wasn't Laurent the source of Vere’s corruption. The realisation came to Damen with unprecedented certainty, but not nearly as much surprise as he would expect. The possibility had been there in the back of his head for a long time.

Laurent was looking at him, his blue eyes sharp, his brows furrowed. "Wait outside," he mouthed from over Nicaise's shoulder.

Damen didn’t have to obey the order, but this wasn’t the time to make a point about their authority over each other.

When he nodded, Laurent had already shut his eyes, his face pressed into Nicaise's curls.

The feeling of intrusion became too much. Damen stepped outside.

The hallway was cold, dimly lit from torches handing from the walls. Huet and the other guard stood at each side of the door. Damen walked toward the opposite wall and all three pretended they couldn’t see the other until the door snapped open.

Laurent had put a jacket on, but the laces trailed, unfastened.

“Follow me,” he said, closing the door behind him. Then, to the guards, “Not you two. You guard Nicaise. If he wants something, fetch it for him.”

The chamber Laurent brought them to was another bedroom. The Queen's apartments, Damen guessed for their location and their overwhelming decor. They were well-kept, but empty. The last one to inhabit them had been Laurent's mother, almost a decade ago.

"You have questions," said Laurent. He sat on a  reclining couch and brought a knee to his chest, his joined hands resting on it. He looked bonelessly tired.

Damen sat next to him.

"No," said Damen. He did have questions, but satisfying his curiosity wasn't important now. "You think something is happening. Something involving Akielos. You won't tell me what it is, or you already would have."

He heard Laurent let out a laboured breath next to him, and knew he was right.

"But you want to stop it."

"Yes," said Laurent.

 _You need to trust me then_ , thought Damen. He didn't say it. It wouldn't work. Laurent had to be approached in another way.

"You're doing it all wrong," said Damen, and that had Laurent perking up.

"Am I?" Startled, with an eyebrow raised. "And what exactly am I doing wrong?"

Damen smiled, savouring it. "Kingship."

"If I wanted to hear someone criticise my kingship, I'd actually listen in council meetings."

"You do listen," said Damen, unyielding in front of Laurent's deflection. "You listen, you ridicule, you tear them apart with words. And, in the end, you let the council take all the decisions."

“What are you suggesting?” Laurent stood up, his body a stiff wire, outrage mixed with exhaustion. “Should I do things differently? And how? Do you want to be the one to _teach_ me?”

“No.” Damen dropped his palms on his thighs. “Laurent –”

“Did I forget giving you leave to call me by my name? Did I forget you asking for it?”

 “I’m not your enemy,” said Damen, slowly, remembering the physician’s words.

Laurent regarded him with cruel finality. “I’ll be the judge of that. You’ve done enough for today, don’t you think? Now leave.”

Damen was careful to take the path farthest from Laurent on his way out.

 

*

 

Laurent went riding in the morning, had other businesses to attend to in the afternoon, and skipped dinner. Damen didn’t see him at all.

He didn’t see Nicaise either. That strangely saddened him. Vannes and the other tablemates were entertaining in their own caustic way, but Damen had grown fond of listening to the youth’s daily adventures with court etiquette and the latest palace gossip.

The events of last night had shifted something in Damen. Laurent was difficult and fractious, but Damen had gained a new understanding of his motives.

Had he really killed the Regent? Damen was still missing pieces of the full picture. Maybe his child lover hadn’t been the worst of the Regent’s misdeeds.

Sleep hadn’t come easily to Damen the night before. He’d tossed and turned and thought of Nicaise’s speech, and Laurent’s in the gardens after the ring. Of Vannes, during Damen’s first evening. _They want to rule. The King wants to rule. As you see, there’s an impasse._

He’d had his fair share of sleepless nights during military training and in the army, but he needed all of his wits to navigate the intricacies of the ongoing negotiations. 

He’d be luckier tonight.

 _Or not_ , he thought as he crossed the threshold of his chamber and saw what awaited him.

Namely Laurent, clad in riding leathers and with his blond hair pulled up, sprawled on an armchair in the small parlour near the entrance.

“These are my apartments,” said Damen, more tired than properly irritated. Nothing good could come from a late night visit from Laurent.

“This is my palace,” Laurent replied. Then, rolling his eyes, “Your guard was unsure about the correct protocol. They told me to wait inside.”

Damen nodded. It explained why they’d tried to stop him on the way in.

Drily, he asked, “What do you need, Your Highness?”

“I know I’m not –” Laurent swallowed, two fingers playing with a pulled thread of the brocade armrest. “I lack some of the training you’ve received.” With a bitter smile, “No one ever thought I’d be King.”

“If you’re so convinced I’m doing things wrong,” he continued, “tell me how to make them right. After all, you were born for this, weren’t you, Damianos?”

It was a request disguised as a challenge.

“Let me undress first,” said Damen, because this was going to be a long night, and because he enjoyed the way Laurent’s cheeks warmed with red.

Once he’d changed from the rich clothes he’d worn at dinner into something more practical, he sat down on the couch nearest to Laurent. Having Laurent here was contradictory: it felt intimate, the two of them alone and tired under dim candlelight, but Laurent meant business, and was relentlessly pressing Damen with more questions.

Damen was surprised by the practical nature of Laurent’s inquiries. They went from taxes to military provisions to how long should Arles be able to withstand a siege.

Damen kept the conversation vague and focused on Vere, without examples for Akielos, careful not to mention anything that could one day be used against his country.

But something told him that, for the good of Akielos, Laurent should stay in power.

As the time passed, Laurent gave no sign of fatigue. He remained straight-backed and concentrated, perfectly composed, except for the silk ribbon he had eventually untied, letting his hair fall on his shoulders.

At some point in the middle of it, Damen wondered if they’d stop before morning.

They did. It had been hours since the start of their conversation. Damen was still talking, when he noticed Laurent was no longer paying attention to him, but staring at a spot behind his shoulder.

Damen turned.

It was Lykaios, silent as a shadow. It was not unusual for a slave to discreetly check in on Damen, especially when he was sleeping alone.

Laurent was no stranger to servants. Damen had seen him treat them with the polite indifference that comes with habit, a mercy for both himself and the servants. He seemed unable to ignore Lykaios.

Was it because she was a slave? Or a woman? Besides Vannes, the King of Vere mustn't have had many chances to entertain female company.

"Hello," said Laurent. He had one pale eyebrow raised, but his voice was kind.

Of course, Lykaios went to her knees, forehead to the ground anyway.

Laurent switched to Akielon. "Please, stand," he said, and stood up himself. He glanced at Damen, but Damen just smiled at him, amused. Laurent really did have a nice accent. "We'll resume tomorrow."

Lykaios was still kneeling, but she had straightened her back. It was hard not to notice, then, the similarities in her and Laurent's colouring. The blond hair, the fair skin, the blue eyes.

Damen guessed, from the pointed look he received from the threshold, that Laurent was pondering the same thing.

 

*

 

It was a day filled with apologies and thanksgivings.

First off was Aimeric, in the morning. It was a sombre affair, as Aimeric had clearly been coaxed to come to Damen by someone else, probably his father.

He asked to be received, stood awkwardly in front of Damen’s breakfast table and mumbled a couple of sentences that Damen interpreted as thanks for not letting the sanglier turn him into minced meat.

As Damen ushered him outside with some shallow compliments on his riding form that he knew would appease Guion, Aimeric’s gaze lingered on the silk ribbon on the desk.

Laurent must have left it there the night before, when he’d let his hair down. He’d closed his eyes and combed his newly freed hair through his fingers, his head thrown back in a moment of uncharacteristic relaxation.

“Let them talk,” Laurent had said when Damen had suggested moving their talk to a less compromising location.

Now that Aimeric had seen the hair tie, they would.

Then came Nicaise, before dinner. Nicaise was a much more welcome sight. 

"Did Laurent tell you to come here?" Damen asked, after making Nicaise sit down and pushing a bowl of sweetmeats in his direction.

Nicaise lifted his nose in the air. Around a mouthful of candy, he said, "Nobody tells me to do anything. I do what I want." Then, at Damen's lack of answer, "He might have suggested it."

"Well.” Damen smiled, leaning back on his chair. “What brings you here, Nicaise?"

Damen was glad to see him back to his impish self.  That didn’t mean he’d make things easier for him.

"Ugh,” Nicaise groaned. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” He held out an arm with a wide, dramatic motion, partially ruined by the hand still holding a sweetmeat. “You almost broke my wrist. You should be the one to apologise."

"Your wrist is fine," said Damen, catching the sweetmeat from Nicaise’s fingers and popping it in his mouth.  It was the best apology he was going to get, unless he pressured Nicaise with the weight of his authority. But Nicaise had suffered enough from the hands of those more powerful than him. Damen said, softer, "You have to be careful."

"I can take care of myself,” said Nicaise with too much certainty to be genuine.

He wanted to add something. These were delicate times. If Nicaise was on Laurent's side, he'd need to behave spotlessly. But it wasn't Damen's place to say.

"What happened to the Regent?" he asked, instead. 

It was an unfair question. Nicaise closed off, eyes on the ground, his hands twisting in his lap.  His lithe fingers were stained with sugar.

His expression  - what Damen could see of it under his fringe of brown curls - was pained and conflicted. 

Finally, with a small, flat voice, Nicaise said, "What he deserved."

 

*

 

They walked to the great hall together. Nicaise had cheered up, and was treating Damen to an enthusiastic rendition of all of his music teacher’s shortcomings.

They were brought to the same places they had occupied after the hunt, with one empty seat between them.

Nicaise raised an eyebrow at Damen, as if to say, _Did you do this?_

Then, Laurent entered.

In Akielos, people knelt in front of their King. In Vere, they rose.

Laurent greeted the room. From Damen’s position, he could see the slight, absurd disbelief on Laurent’s face, as if he wasn’t yet used to this.

He sat down. With a subtle twist of his fingers, he signalled to everyone else to do the same.

“Your Highness,” said Damen with a grin.

Laurent shrugged. “You said I had to be here.”

“You listened.” He couldn’t contain the pleasure in his voice.

He reached for the string of his chiton, where he’d tied Laurent’s ribbon. He slid it to Laurent under the table. “Here, you left it last night.”

“Shameless,” said Laurent, but took the ribbon and, with an easy, practiced gesture, used it to pull up his hair.

 

*

 

There was no denying that Laurent took his role as King seriously.

He spent hours hunched over a map in Damen's chamber, rediscussing minor adjustments to the borders in Delpha. What villages gave the most problems. Where they should employ less patrols, as a sign of peace, and where more, to ensure stability.

He tried to absorb everything Damen could give him, never showing a sign of tiredness. He was just as composed when he left Damen's rooms in the middle of the night as he was when he appeared at council meetings in the mornings.

They could talk more freely here. They went over what had been said by the council, and dicussed in advance what was likely to be brought up next. Laurent was sharp and had a mind for numbers. He could unravel problems like a seasoned sailor with a knot.

The longing for home was a steady companion for Damen, but he felt his work here mattered. It wasn't the first time he'd been tasked with negotiations, but never of this magnitude, and never completely by himself. There would be a treaty at the end of his stay, and it would be as important as a military victory.

He looked at Laurent, curled on a reclining couch with his legs beneath him, the collar of his jacket unlaced.

They didn't just talk politics. Sometimes they just... talked.

Today the subject had been festivals and celebrations, but they hadn't said anything of substance for the last half hour at least. Their voices had gotten lower, their poses more comfortable.

"The summer festival is next," Laurent was saying, his eyes a gentle, liquid blue. "You have something similar in Akielos, don't you?"

"Yes, the fire festival." If their origins could be traced back the the Artesian empire, when Vere and Akielos were one, they might have stemmed from the same celebration. "At Ios, preparations are likely already underway."

"Ours will start when we can stop sucking up to the Prince of Akielos.” Laurent’s mouth was curved in a half-smile. “It’s going to be hell. I’ve not been gifted with the patience and amiability necessary for those kinds of social gatherings.”

"You don't say," teased Damen. "People laughing and dancing and being merry? A nightmare." The cold look he got in return was well deserved.

Laurent shuddered and shook his head. "Just wait until you have to preside over one."

"You're the King," said Damen, laughing. He would have no problem at all presiding over a glorified excuse to drink and play sports for days. "Get someone to impersonate you and stay holed up here."

"Wouldn't that be nice. It's what I did when I was a child. I just locked myself in the library and spent the holiday reading. It was Auguste who always took part in these things. Admittedly, it was also one of the few occasions in which he could see women who weren't married or as old as the walls of the palace."

Damen freezed at the mention of Auguste, and his freezing had Laurent realising and stiffening.

With a certain surprise, Damen had soon discovered Laurent was an avid conversationalist and could speak at length of trivial, sentimental matters with his unique and endlessly entertaining  wit. He slipped at times, letting private details emerge in between all of the sarcasm and brilliant crassness he used as armour.

Sometimes, Damen got the impression that Laurent forgot whom he was talking to. Even more, that there were two Damianos in his head: the one who'd killed his brother; and the man he shared his meals and evenings with, engrossed in a stream of words and opinions that never stopped flowing.

Until now.

Laurent brought his knees to his chest, a barrier not unlike the fists Nicaise had pressed against Laurent's chest that night in his room.

Damen wanted to say something about Auguste. Of how honourably he'd fought and how lucky Damen had been to come out almost unscathed, nevermind the winner. But he didn't. It would be too easy for him, and not what Laurent wanted. Laurent knew perfectly well how honourable Auguste had been.

"And you?" he asked, instead, trying to keep his tone light despite the gravity of the moment. "No chasing girls for you?"

Laurent reacted with anger when he felt threatened or wronged. Damen half expected him to storm out with a trenchant remark, and Damen would have destroyed almost a week of work with a handful of words.

But Laurent snorted and let his legs part a bit, his posture more slouched.

"Laurent," he said. "If you're going to mock me, might as well call me by my name."

"Laurent." Damen tasted the word in his mouth. He'd said it before, but using it to its owner was exhilarating.

"Whatever, Exalted," said Laurent, with a pungency that smelled of overcompensation.

"What? You already call me Damianos." Then, out of pure giddiness, "If you wanted, you could call me Damen."

"Oh dear, what are we now, childhood sweethearts? No, thank you, Damianos will suffice." He took a steadying breath and added, his speech chopped and unsteady, "And no. Not - I've never - not with a woman."

"Because it's forbidden?"

Laurent shook his head.

"And with a man?"

"Only one." 

Damen’s lips parted in wide-eyed surprise. "How was it?" he asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. It was inappropriate between royalties, but it was the kind of thing men talked about.

Laurent pondered his answer. He’d been brazen and pragmatic when discussing the need for brothels in Vere, but he seemed shy about his own experiences. The chaste King of Vere, not as celibate as people thought. It was a heady discovery.

 _The King is frigid, everybody knows that_ , Nicaise had said. Damen might have been the only person to know otherwise.

Finally, “Bad,” Laurent said.

His empty voice resonated in the room like a glass shattering into pieces on the marble floor.

It wasn’t the ridiculous, joking way in which one recounted an unfortunate encounter. It may be that, for icy Laurent, lack of proficiency in any setting was akin to a personal failure.

But recent events had made Damen more thoughtful, less prone to jumping to the easiest conclusion.

He remembered the hug between Nicaise and Laurent. The bond the two seemed to share so intimately.

 _Not bad_. _Unwanted_.

“Laurent –”

Something in his face must be giving away his deduction. Laurent’s eyes widened and he shot up, like only now absorbing what he’d said, what Damen had understood.

“I should go,” he said, frantic, like a bird batting his wings against the bars of a cage. “I need – I have to go.”

“Don’t –” Damen stood up as well, and watched with dread as Laurent immediately took a step back. He sat back down, telegraphic his every move. “You could stay.” And gently, carefully, “Laurent, you don’t have to be alone.”

It came too close to acknowledging what had been growing between them and they’d ignored, a complex feeling with no name and no chance to ever reach the smallest fulfilment.

Damen saw Laurent’s conflict as he walked to the door, his thoughts as loud as his boots. He waited, at first, for Laurent to throw his words back at him. Then, for Laurent to leave, wordlessly, and never mention this again.

Laurent pulled the door open and stopped, his body half engulfed in darkness. 

“Okay,” he said, closing the door, then turning and pressing his back against it. “Okay.”

 

*

 

Damen woke up to a stiffness that travelled from his neck to his spine to his still recovering thigh. He wasn’t in his bed.

He stretched his arms above his head and looked around. He was in the parlour, on the same armchair he’d occupied last night.

With a jolt, he saw that Laurent was, too.

He lay on his side the reclining couch, asleep, his hands tucked beneath his cheek. It was day, the light from outside harsh and blinding. He was bathed in gold.

“Mh,” Laurent made a soft sound from his throat and curled his toes. He’d taken off his boots sometime during the night, and his small socked feet had warmth spreading through Damen’s chest.

His eyes blinked open, their colour mellow, almost grey, bright like aquamarine.

“Good morning,” said Damen with a helpless smile.

Laurent shook his shoulders and distended his legs in a languid dance. With an amused smirk, he said, “Is it.”

“We fell asleep,” Damen pointed out for no reason at all. It was a silly thing to say. It was all right – he felt a bit silly at the moment.

He thought of last night, how he’d witnessed Laurent letting his walls ease down, brick by brick, until there was no more than a fence between them. The conversation had been light, with lazy comments about books (Laurent), sports (Damen), swords (surprisingly, both).

Laurent sighed. “I have to go –”

“Riding?” Damen supplied with a grin.

“Yes.” Sharp.

“I don’t believe you.”

The Laurent he’d learned to know during their talks wouldn’t skip council meetings to go on a leisurely canter through the meadows around the palace. No. He kept up the façade to cover something else.

“That’s hardly my problem.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” said Damen. Laurent squinted his eyes at him, so he added, “A secret rendezvous, early in the morning, disguised as a lone ride? Whomever you’re meeting, you shouldn’t go alone.”

Laurent puffed his chest and assessed him. Damen guessed he was pondering the best lie to give him.

Finally, he shrugged and said, “All right. Get dressed. I need a chaperone anyway.”

 _Chaperone?_  “I meant you should bring a guard, not the Prince of Akielos.”

“Are you backing off?”

“Just give me a faster horse than last time.”

The stables were empty, although Laurent’s mare had already been prepared. Laurent greeted her with a caress on her muzzle, and offered her a treat that she ate from the palm of his hand. It was tender and unnecessary, unlike Laurent’s usual pragmatism.

He picked one for Damen next, a strong piebald, lean, perfect for riding. He saddled him swiftly, clearly accustomed to the job. For a young man who’d never served, it was impressive.

“I’m not sure brocade agrees with riding,” Damen teased when they were mounted.

Laurent was no less graceful or skilled, but the rigid jacket didn’t allow as much movement as leathers would.

“Our interlocutors value punctuality,” said Laurent with a private smirk. “Don’t worry, it’s a short ride.”

Laurent led them outside of the palace and into the trails that surrounded Arles. They headed North, through the woods.

Laurent hadn’t lied. After an hour or so, they entered a clearing and Laurent brought his horse to a halt in the middle of it. Damen followed.

“Don’t speak,” ordered Laurent.

He said it in Akielon, and it soon became obvious why. Two figures on horseback emerged from the woods, armed and clad in furs.

Women, dark-haired and dark-skinned. Vaskians.

Damen wasn't as fluent in Vaskian as he was in Veretian. Akielos shared no borders with Vask. They had an understanding with the Empress and the only trouble they sometimes had with Vaskians was at -

 _Delpha_.

He tried to catch as much of the conversation as he could. Unfortunately Laurent was proficient, and spoke quickly with an elaborate vocabulary. The two women had thick Northern accents, which made Damen's attempts perfectly futile.

They did glance at his figure, his broad shoulders and muscular thighs with an appreciation that was almost academical. Damen supposed that counted for something.

He understood the major points they were discussing. He heard talk of borders, raids, armies. Most importantly, as it went on, he saw Laurent's jaw harden and his lips flatten in a thin line.

It was a short meeting. A report, Damen thought. 

"Right.” Laurent turned Damen when they were done. "I need to give them their reward."

They hadn't bought anything. They'd gone straight from Damen's apartments to the stables.

"What reward?"

A corner of Laurent's mouth lifted up. "You're sitting on it."

It was ridiculous, dismounting in the middle of nowhere with the expectant looks of two Vaskians and the King of Vere. At the end of it, one of the Vaskians took hold of the reins of the piebald and, after a loud comment and a pointed look at Damen, the two took off.

"What did she say?" asked Damen.

"That I could leave you on it." Laurent's enjoyment was plain, his voice absurdly giggly. "Now hop on."

He patted the back of his saddle.

"Would you stop it," said Damen, pushing Laurent's foot out of the stirrup and mounting behind him. What he got was laughter, sweet and unexpected.

Settling was hard. Damen remembered how Laurent had reacted when he'd touched his wristcuff, and now they were chest to back, and Damen's hands had nowhere to go but on his hips.

"Come on," urged Laurent, his voice hushed and crisp. "I'm not going to have you flayed for it. Let's not start a war because I dropped the Crown Prince of Akielos from a horse."

Damen wrapped his hands around Laurent's middle, and they commenced their journey back to Arles.

"That was a report," said Damen after a while. _And the reward was a bribe._

Because of their position, he had to speak in Laurent's ear. At times, the wind carried some of Laurent's blond locks in his direction, and they tickled his cheeks and neck.

"Yes."

"With information from the border."

"Yes."

"So secret not even your ambassador from Vask could be trusted to deal with it."

Laurent inhaled, a nervous sound. "Yes."

"Something is happening."

Surprisingly, Laurent shook his head. "Nothing important. Not now. No." Then, like it was a physical effort to let someone into his reasoning, "I think this is a prelude."

"To what?" Laurent stayed silent. Delpha. Vaskian clans. Raids. A prelude. "To war?"

It had been there in Laurent's implications since day one. But Laurent had invited his father to sign a stable alliance. And his father was in no condition to plan war on anyone.

"If you don't want war," he said, and saw Laurenr shiver beneath his breath, "and we don't want war, who's behind it?"

Laurent gave no answer.

"We're almost there," he said instead. They were leaving the woods. When the trail became clearer and easier he sped up, pushing the horse as fast as she would go, too fast for them to keep talking.

They reached the stables in silence. Damen was so lost in thought he didn't see Jord approaching them.

Jord gave no outer sign of surprise at the sight. He gave no sign of anything at all. It was admirable.

"Your Majesty," he said to Laurent with a small bow. Then, to Damen, "Your Highness, there's a message from Ios."

Damen all but jumped off the horse. He'd been waiting for news from home. He hoped - God, he hoped.

He tore the seal off the parchment and unfolded the letter. It had his father's seal, but wasn't in his father's handwriting. That was the first blow.

He went to the bottom of it, then rereading it again. The words didn't make sense.

 _Come home_. The pleading ending, the desperate prayer of a dying father. But Theomedes wasn't that. He was the King and he would heal.

_Come home, son._

He didn't register Laurent approaching until he felt a hand on his arm.

"I'll have a ship ready to set sail at dawn tomorrow."

Damen wanted to mount back on the horse that was still saddled and ride off immediately, but it was faster by sea. Three days, while a ride from Arles to Ios could take two weeks.

He was grateful Laurent had already made the reasonable choice for him.

Damen thought of the morning in his rooms, when he’d felt time slowing down to the graceful stretch of Laurent’s limbs. Now he was ashamed of it.

He went through the motions. A lot had to be done before his departure; there were belongings to gather, people to inform. Treaties to sign. Kings to –

But he had to stay concentrated. He listened to the concerns of his household – what to bring, what to leave, when to be ready. He read the draft of the treaty, then spent two hours working out minor corrections as the council, who couldn’t hid its disapproval for his abrupt decision, made things harder than they were already.

By dinnertime, most things had been settled. He ate a small meal in the room he’d occupied to take care of the last details, with only Pallas for company.

When he was done, he prepared to walk back to his chamber. It would be the last sleep before the restlessness of the ship, then the heartache that awaited him at home.

“Your Highness.” A servant stopped him in the corridor, a sprint in his step as if he’d been waiting for him to get out. “The King has asked to see you.”

Laurent. What could he want now? Damen had been meek and accommodating this afternoon, everything to smoothen their negotiations and reach a fast conclusion.

He thought, for a second – _maybe_. But Laurent was impossible to predict.

He nodded, and followed the servant. It was easy to recognize the way: he’d walked it with Nicaise only days before. He could barely reconcile the anger he’d felt then with the turmoil that was now swirling in his chest.

When he entered his apartments this time, he faced Laurent alone.

Laurent was stripped down to his white shirt, a pale vision in between the orderly chaos of the Veretian décor.

Damen had barely noticed the room when he’d stormed in with Nicaise. Now, he took in the heavy blue curtains, threaded with gold. The starburst, symbol of Laurent’s household, prominent in every detail.

The golden goblets on the low table next to Laurent. Two.

“I have something to tell you,” said Laurent. He’d been like this all day, gentler, as if Damen was a frightened horse. It was absurd, but had Damen’s heart clenching with something that, for a few moments, wasn’t worry for his father.

Near the goblets was a letter. Laurent bent to pick it up.

“Some months ago, one of my Uncle’s men let his tongue loose with someone who was smart enough to report to me,” Laurent explained. “He spoke about a conspiracy to kill the King. But in Vere there hasn’t been a King in six years.”

He twirled the letter between his fingers. “I decided to investigate, but it was Nicaise who found it. It’s a letter to Paschal from his brother, who was a member of the Royal Guard when my father was King.”

Damen took the letter when Laurent offered it to him. He glanced at the date.

Six years ago. _Marlas_.

“Yes,” said Laurent, looking at him. “It’s from the day after the last battle. Read it.”

The ink had sunk and smeared into the old pages, but it was clear what it was. A confession from the killer of King Aleron, who’d been promised gold and fame to shoot an arrow into the King’s neck.

“It was him.” Laurent’s voice was stony. “It was my Uncle. We were outnumbered, outmatched. It was over – Delfeur was lost. We knew it, but he insisted. He was a bewitcher and a chest player. My father – he wasn’t like my Uncle. Like me. He didn’t think like that. For him to win was to take with force, not with cleverness, and my Uncle took advantage of that. While heralds were still in the Akielon royal tent, he used his words like poison and sent my father and Auguste into the already bloodied field. I remember the battlefield as if I’d never left it. It was an hour of naïve confidence until the Akielon regained their footing after the surprise attack, then an afternoon of massacre. And Damianos, he cut a path through our soldiers to get to Auguste and – when Damianos reached my brother, –”

“I killed him.”

Damen set the letter down where it had been. Laurent wasn’t finished. He gave him the space to gather his words.

Eventually, Laurent continued.

“I have hated you for six years. A consuming, burning kind of hate. I’ve shaped my life to get revenge on you. I’ve fantasised killing you in a hundred different ways. I’ve blamed you –,” his voice cracked. “Only to find out you were nothing but a pawn in my Uncle’s plan. That my brother, no matter how well he fought, would have never made it out of that field alive.”

It hurt to look at Laurent. His was a pain Damen could not begin to comprehend. He’d been betrayed by the very same person he’d been entrusted to. His whole line was dead, and for what? The Regent’s days in power had always been numbered.

Unless –

“He still needed to get rid of you.” Uncertain, like a question.

“He tried,” said Laurent. “I was quicker.”

The admission startled him, though he’d known already. The Regent was guilty of treason. Death was the only punishment. But he’d deserved to die in public, in front of the whole court, and for his head to be put on a spike. Not to be celebrated and mourned while Laurent struggled to restore a reputation his Uncle himself had ruined.

“Laurent, you need to tell the council.”

“Tell what? That I killed my Uncle for a throne that was already mine?”

“He’s remembered like some sort of martyr. He killed his own brother for blind ambition. He would have killed _you_. He should receive no mercy.”

Laurent let out a breath. “When you go back to Akielos, remember your words.”

“Another riddle?” Damen snorted. “My father is sick. This isn’t the time for games.”

“I’m not –” he stopped and came forward. He held his arms cautiously against his sides, but he was close, close enough to – “Damen.” The name was a shock. “You need to listen to me. You need to be careful. If anything happens to Theomedes –”

“My father will be fine,” said Damen. He didn’t want to talk about this.

He rested his palms on the desk behind him and leant into it. He closed his eyes. He inhaled. He exhaled. He opened them.

He asked, “Is this what you wanted to tell me?”

“I,” Laurent flushed, his cheeks warm and red, his speech more laboured. “I wanted to return the favour.”

His gaze flickered to the floor, only for a moment. He stared straight at Damen, then, and his voice was back to its signature cool velvety crispness when he said, “Sleep here tonight.”

“Yes,” Damen said, before he could think, before he could stop. He’d only ever been on a frozen lake once, but this is what it felt like. The ice so thin beneath your feet. The fear it might break any second, with the promise of freezing, deadly cold. The exhilarating power of walking on water.

The walk to the bed was slow, savoured. Damen took his time taking off his sandals, Laurent his boots.

The bed was as overcomplicated as Veretian things tended to be, with a heavy canopy and curtains that could be closed if one felt like sleeping in a coffin.

It didn’t matter. As they laid on their sides facing each other, Damen allowed himself this:  for those short hours until dawn, nothing had to matter.

Two feet separated them – too many, but the thought of reaching out and touching Laurent’s hand was also too much.

Damen couldn’t remember ever feeling like this. He’d always been an enthusiastic, unabashed lover, even during his fumbling teen years.

But they weren’t fumbling teenagers. They were royalty of rival countries, and Damen was leaving tomorrow. They could have this night, nothing more.

“I’m the one who should return the favour,” said Damen. Better, he whispered. Two feet were enough to carry his voice. “Come to Akielos. When my father recovers, come. Surely Vere can survive a week without you.”

“Only a week? That’s not very generous, Exalted.”

Laurent had let a single candle on. The low light made him softer, his features more curved where usually he was all chiselled angles.

“The time necessary for a proper sports tournament. I doubt you’d want to stay after I beat you at everything.”

“You haven’t even seen me hold a sword yet.”

“No. I’ve seen you hold a spear,” Damen smiled. “But I’m smarter than a boar.”

“Debatable, if you’re trying to charm me with sports.”

Damen had to laugh. It was true, and heady. _Charming Laurent of Vere_.

“We have a library in the palace,” he said, and added, “I think,” just to hear Laurent laugh back at him. “We have the most crystalline waters, and white sandy beaches. Have you ever ridden on a beach?”

Laurent shook his head and licked his lips. “That’s better.”

They talked until the two feet between them were filled with more yawns than words.

It was late. Today had been long, tomorrow would be longer.

They slept. Damen let himself dream.

 

*

 

Laurent was nowhere to be found.

Damen’s retinue was ready. The horses were saddled, the van full. The amount of time Damen could stall was ending.

Just as he was about to mount –

“He’s not coming.”

A voice behind him. Nicaise, prim and laced-up. The right clothes, the wrong person.

“Who?” said Damen, then felt ridiculous for it.

“Please. My room is near the King’s. You weren’t really stealthy when you snuck out this morning.”

Damen hadn’t tried to be. He’d been – frustrated. Laurent had left him with an empty room and the dreadful feeling he’d missed something.

“Anyway,” continued Nicaise. “He’s not coming. He’s not fond of goodbyes.” He said it as if dealing with the King’s quirks required a lot of his patience.

Damen had no reply for him. He wished for a last glimpse of Laurent, but maybe this was for the best.

“Nice of you to see me off, then,” he teased and laughed when Nicaise scowled in response.

“Don’t let it get to your head.” Nicaise reached inside the pocket of his jacket and took out a small object. “Here. I only came to give you this.”

It was a ring, golden, with a red gem on top. A ruby, perhaps.

Nicaise pushed it into his hand. “It’s supposed to be a good luck charm, but it doesn’t work. I don’t want it. Keep it.”

A weight rested behind Nicaise’s brazen tone. Damen closed his fist around the ring. He wouldn’t deny Nicaise this.

With a nod that could only be considered a bow if one was lenient, Nicaise turned on his heels and left, rapidly disappearing in between the mounted soldiers and expectant servants that surrounded Damen.

Damen put the ring in a satchel on his horse’s saddle. When he was on horseback, he gave one last look around. No blond heads were visible.

It was just like when he’d arrived, and not at all.

He gave his soldiers the signal. They rode off.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. The second and last part should be up sometime next week.  
> If you feel like it, come have a chat on [tumblr](sunshinerish.tumblr.com)


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